


in the arms of sacrilege

by whalersandsailors



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: And Then Some, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a little bit I suppose, and he can't get a break, bad things keep happening to Corvo, sad rat dad needs a nap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 16:08:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8759863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalersandsailors/pseuds/whalersandsailors
Summary: Of all that can go wrong in a day, Corvo has certainly experienced the worst. He’s tired, and he seeks comfort in unlikely places.





	

Corvo drops the sword, recoiling in disgust as the body of Granny Rags dissolves into a swarm of rats. The creatures rush past his feet, squeaking and chattering, disappearing down the crooked stairs and crevices in the wall. 

Corvo licks his lips, takes a second to reassess his surroundings, before walking back into the room at the top of the stairs. The space is overwhelmed with the heat of the furnace, and Slackjaw’s panicked voice echoes through the window. Corvo forgot about him but decides to leave him, assuming that with the witch dead that one of Slackjaw’s men will eventually come to his rescue.

Corvo sits on the cot, resting his head in his hands. It’s been a day, and he is weary. His heart seizes with panic every time he thinks of Emily.

Yesterday is a blur. His senses are still dulled from the poison he had unwittingly drunk, given to him by friends. But he remembers that Hiram Burrows is dead. There was celebration. Emily was safe to return to the throne, to reclaim her birthright. It should have been a moment of triumph.

And instead, Corvo found himself in a boat, delirious and in pain, discovered by Daud’s men and thrown into yet another prison cell. In his rage, Corvo escaped, slaughtering every masked man and woman who blocked the path to Jessamine’s murderer, and yet when that very man lay on the ground clutching his bleeding side, Corvo could not bring himself to kill the pathetic man before him.

Maybe he recognized the guilt, the grief. The exhaustion. He looked at Daud and saw a fellow Serkonan, displaced in an alien land and wrecked by the industrial spite of Dunwall. Corvo had sheathed his sword, deciding that death was too easy for Daud.

Corvo pulls himself to his feet. His day is far from over, and he must continue making his way to the Hound Pits Pub. His belly rumbles, and he impatiently grabs a tin of jellied eels from a table, only able to stomach a couple before he tosses the remainder of food on the ground.

There is a portrait haphazardly suspended on the wall, and Corvo stares at it as he slowly chews the eels. 

The style is Sokolov’s and the subject—shrouded by darkness—one of the Sokolov’s greatest obsessions. Corvo would say that it is a decent resemblance to the god only because the painting perfectly captures the Outsider’s mystery. The face is blurred. Corvo isn’t surprised.

He considers for a moment taking the painting. It would be worth plenty of coin. 

But the heart in his coat pocket is beating, increasingly frantic, and Corvo can no longer ignore the distant hum in the air.

There is a shrine nearby.

Corvo swallows and uses Granny Rags’ key to go further into her makeshift home. As expected, there is a narrow staircase which leads to a landing framed by rich purple velvet and the soft glow of a lantern. The rune sits on the table, crooning a soft whalesong, expectant of any occultist who should lay hands upon it.

Corvo hesitates only a second before grabbing it.

The rush is familiar, though Corvo is never fully prepared for the sensation of ice cold gripping his torso, like a leaden hand reaching into his ribcage and pulling. It almost feels like drowning when the Void envelopes him, dragging him into a small corner of the abyss.

There is a whisper of movement, and a familiar figure appears before him.

The Outsider is quick with a typical greeting, spoken with a hint of amusement.

“You find yourself in such interesting places, Corvo”, he admonishes, hand gesturing to the narrow hallway.

Corvo doesn’t look at him. 

“Stop,” he pleads, desperation making his voice catch.

Surprisingly, the Outsider remains silent. Corvo’s hands are still wrapped around the rune. He drops it without ceremony, finally looking up at the god. The Outsider stares at him, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

Corvo can only bear looking at those eyes—pitch black _holes_ , more like—for a few seconds. His gaze falls to some point past the Outsider’s feet.

“Do you always float?” Corvo complains, feeling somewhat childish for doing so. “Do you always have to—I don’t know, _flaunt_ that you’re above all this?”

Corvo sighs, yanking his mask off only so that he can drag a hand over his face. When he reopens his eyes, he is taken aback to see the Outsider’s feet touching the ground. His eyes flit up to see himself face-to-face with the Outsider, the pale face tilted with no other change of expression.

“You are troubled,” the Outsider muses.

Corvo lets out an incredulous snort. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

The Outsider frowns. “You have a great deal of fortitude, Corvo. You have endured things that would drive other men to madness.” He hesitates, before adding, “You have come so far. And yet your choices only now haunt you?”

Corvo looks at the ground. He shakes his head, everything bubbling inside of him: betrayal, poison, Daud, memories, Emily, the plague, the bodies, the rats—

He bursts.

“Don’t you watch all of it?” he accuses the Outsider with a fierce frown, his voice deadly quiet. “So you already know. After everything—all the people I’ve killed, all the destruction I’ve seen—Emily is gone. Again. I barely got out of this one alive, thanks to the very people I trusted with my own daughter’s safety this week, and I end up in the god forsaken Flooded District, with Daud and his men, no equipment, no goddamn idea of what I’m going to do next.”

Corvo breathes. The Outsider waits.

“And you say I’m troubled,” Corvo finishes with a ragged chuckle. 

The Outsider says nothing, much to Corvo’s relief. There is an ache deep in his bones, and for a brief moment, he almost considers begging the Outsider. For anything—help, respite, even a few hours of peace. Corvo is suddenly very tired.

Before he can stop himself, Corvo closes the distance between himself and the Outsider. His chin collides with a shoulder he didn’t fully expect to be solid, and he closes his eyes, pressing his face into the Outsider’s coat. 

It smells faintly of ash, he notices.

There is a brief pause, suspended, before two hands come to rest on the small of Corvo’s back. The fingers dig into his coat. Another second passes, and Corvo lets his own arms wrap around the body before him. One of the hands on his back slides slowly to his neck, then tangles into his hair. The touch is gentle, reminiscent of a lover’s comfort.

_Time is meaningless here, Corvo._ So says a voice that is both in Corvo’s head and a whisper in the room. _Take as long as you need._

Corvo does.

It may be a minute. Perhaps hours. Corvo finally pulls away, arms still looped around the Outsider’s waist, feeling as though he has woken from a long dream. 

The Void feels distant.

Corvo thinks he should feel embarrassed for his lapse in control. He has always been careful around the capricious god, always apprehensive about whatever the Outsider finds intriguing. 

Corvo braves a glance at the Outsider to find him already staring at Corvo, his eyes narrowed, a small crease in between his brow, the only wrinkle on an otherwise smooth face. Corvo is struck by his youth, a wild idea planting itself in his mind that the Outsider is handsome. Corvo wonders if he has always looked this way.

A cold hand cups Corvo’s face. Corvo flinches only a little.

The Outsider regards him with curiosity. “Fascinating,” he murmurs.

Corvo can’t help but laugh a little. “Fascinating?” he repeats.

The Outsider hums, “You never fail to surprise me, Corvo.”

The Outsider’s lips quirk in small smile before he leans in, his nose pressed to Corvo’s cheek. Corvo acts before he thinks, turning his face toward the Outsider’s.

They kiss. Corvo’s lips open, and all he feels and taste is cold air. The Outsider moves his hand to Corvo’s jaw, his thumb brushing the days old stubble. Corvo closes his eyes.

The kiss ends. The Outsider’s lips are only an inch from Corvo’s, and abruptly, the Outsider pulls away. The smile from earlier is replaced with a frown. There is movement in the darkness of his eyes as though he were rapidly looking at Corvo and away. It is an oddly human expression, Corvo thinks.

Before Corvo can say anything more, the Outsider vanishes into smoke and shadow, and the Void shoves Corvo back into reality. It is with such force that Corvo nearly stumbles from the narrow space onto the stairs behind him, but he grabs the handrail before he falls.

Corvo stares at the shrine, the singing of the rune only an echo now. 

“What,” he mutters to an empty room, “ _the hell_? How did I—?”

Startled, Corvo looks about the room, appraising where he is. He slowly remembers that he is in Granny Rags’ room. He remembers the sewers; he remembers Slackjaw in stocks; he remembers cutting down Granny Rags.

Corvo doesn’t remember the shrine.

He gives his shoulders a tiny shake, rubbing at his neck and bending it until it gives a satisfying crack. He rubs his palm against his jaw, where it tingles from some long ago sensation he cannot place. He replaces his mask, adjusting the hood of his coat around it. 

Corvo gives the shrine a long, hard look before turning to go down the stairs. His feet lead him back out—muscle memory more than anything since Corvo can’t remember how he found the shrine. He certainly doesn’t remember whatever lecture the Outsider undoubtedly gave him.

Corvo grunts as he pulls the floorboards up from a portion of open pipe he finds. 

It’s been a long day, and he still has so far to go.

But. 

He sighs, not quite ready to jump into the cold stream of water. He thinks of Emily. Of Jessamine. Of Daud. 

And he feels oddly at ease.

“I’m coming for you, Emily,” he whispers to himself, to someone, to no one at all; “I’ll find you.”

He holds his breath and falls.

the end

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a post on tumblr, and as much as I wanted to write about this particular interaction, I gotta say that writing this ship is not a cakewalk. I was also partially inspired by the portrayal of the Outsider in Dishonored 2 which is much less impersonal than in the first game.


End file.
